Old Friends
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: This story ambushed me. Don't ask why. Far-future, thirty years into a joint empire shared with Agatha. All three have grown apart in all ways but political solidarity, and haven't lived the lives we hoped for them. They've all made personal mistakes along the way. Sex exists (and matters) but is not represented. Happy-ish, funny-ish ending. Just-it's not your normal fun-fic. 1/?


It was the thirtieth year of the Second Great Peace of modern Europa – the Trinary Pax of Wulfenbach, Sturmvoraus, and Heterodyne, or "Donner, Blitzen, und Hagel," as the wags at taverns and gaming halls across Europa liked to call it. Thunder, Lightning, and Hail. Together they made the perfect storm…a storm no one wanted to face in its wrath.

That wrath was very close to manifesting, at least where Thunder was concerned. Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, who served in most instances as the executive leader of the combined Extended Empire of East and West Europa, in its sprawling continental entirety, was feeling quite a bit like his nickname – thundery and sullen and ready to shout at the least excuse. Fortunately for him an excuse was on its way; better yet, it was the actual cause of his annoyance.

He strode energetically around his opulent office, tidying papers into imposing piles, setting the Jager dagger he enjoyed using as his letter opener in plain sight at the front of the desk top. If Sturmvoraus was up to the old Storm King tricks of his ancestors, as Gil's intelligence analysts thought possible, well… if he was, then a glint of a dagger in the foreground might make him feel properly threatened. It would certainly make Gil feel that much more properly armed.

He and Tarvek seldom saw each other these days. Tarvek ran his portion of the Empire from Paris. In the same way Agatha held Mechanicsberg, ruling the Eastern Empire. Gil himself held court either in Budapest, where he was now, or maintained a sort of traveling court as he toured their joint realm, serving as the unifying factor knitting the many regions and factions together. The three Imperators met once a year in one of Europa's major cities to clear up unresolved business. Otherwise their lives were too busy for casual encounters.

It took matters of serious concern to bring them together – or for Gil to demand Tarvek attend him.

He wanted Sturmvoraus to take this seriously.

What was missing? he wondered, scanning the room. With a grimace he decided that the stage really would not be properly set without the expensive cut-glass bottle of Irish whisky and the matching glasses. Not that he liked encouraging Sturmvoraus in any additional vice….

And to think that weasel had once accused him of being a disreputable cad!

He'd just collected the tray and set it at the corner of the desk when there was the usual tactful tap at the door, and his secretary Hans called, "Herr Wulfenbach? Prince Sturmvoraus is here for his appointment, sir. May he come in?"

Gil's eyes narrowed, and he consciously drew himself up into his most formal, imposing posture, determined to dominate the room. He knew he had the advantage. Klaus' genes combined with constant self-discipline had served him well over the decades, and he knew he still cut quite the figure, even without putting in extra effort, what with his shock of snow-white hair and his broad shoulders and chest. He might not be so tall as Klaus, but he could be fully as intimidating. He made himself wait a full second before saying, firmly, "Yes, Hans, send him in."

The French doors of the suite swung open, and Prince Sturmvoraus sauntered in, his silver-capped cane swinging gently, his shadowy forest green morning coat and matching trousers cut just-so, his spats dazzling white over black shoes polished to perfection. His a floral silk waistcoat looked like an impressionist water garden—all glowing greens and blues and misty pinks, and was cut so perfectly that there wasn't so much as a crease to suggest the fabric might have to stretch somewhat to make it across his round belly.

If time had not been so kind to Tarvek as it had to Gil, he'd still made the most of what he had. As Gil had taken after Klaus, Tarvek had proven himself Aaronev's son, in the end. Like Aaronev, his appetite had finally caught up with his waistline and chins. He'd kept his hair, but it had first darkened with age, and then gone gingery as he greyed. The pony-tail was long since gone, though he'd kept the bangs, which somehow found a way to look charming as they made an orderly escape from their proper backswept position, tumbling softly over his forehead. His pince-nez were still perched, perfectly balanced at the tip of a nose grown somewhat more prominent with age than in his youth. On his upper lip he'd grown a precise, elegant, dark little moustache that burned with the crimson embers of the fire the rest of his hair had once shown.

He looked like what he was, Gil thought, taking slightly too much smug pleasure in his own disapproval. Tarvek looked every bit the aging Parisian roué that Gil's intelligence officers suggested he was. Tarvek had enjoyed a bit too much wine, a good deal too much pate and escargot, and if his intelligence chief's reports were accurate, quite a lot too much in the way of women and song, in the last few years since his divorce. And perhaps even a few men, too…though according to their field agents it was difficult to be certain what Sturmvoraus did behind closed doors, and with whom. Or why.

The why, of course, was the reason Gilgamesh Wulfenbach had called for him…and why Gil was determined to remind him just who ruled Extended Europa, in the final reckoning. Thunder, Lightning, and Hail…but Thunder spoke loudest! Gil wanted no Zola-style connivance with the disgruntled sparks and revolutionaries of Europa going on in the West…and he certainly didn't want any such cheek from Tarvek, who should feel himself lucky to have control of half the Empire in all issues but those that affected the combined whole of East and West, when Agatha's voice was heard and Gil had the deciding vote.

Maintaining his most Klausian grandeur and command persona, Gil tipped his head brusquely toward the chair set before the desk: a chair chosen to be a bit small, a bit uncomfortable, and entirely impossible to truly relax in. Klaus had known any number of tricks to keep his subjects and subordinates off-balance, and he'd used them whenever roaring at them had seemed counterproductive. Gil maintained the tradition.

Tarvek looked at the chair and arched a brow, face radiating sardonic amusement. "Are you serious? I'm not a complete fool, Wulfenbach. If you don't have your man pull over one of those wing-back chairs from over by the window I'll just sit on the edge of your desk. It has to be more comfortable than that insufferable little torture device." He slipped his black felt Homburg hat from his head, placed it upside down on the right fore-corner of Gil's desk, stripped off black kid gloves which he folded neatly and dropped into the hat, and settled his cane to lean against the polished mahogany of the desk front. He smirked slightly, and cocked his head a not-quite imperceptible few degrees. "Well? Your choice, old friend. Wing-chair or desk-top? Which shall it be?"

Gil didn't quite manage to control an annoyed grimace. After a moment he gave in, jerking a nod to the waiting Hans. As the secretary called for a footman to help him carry one of the heavy chairs over to the desk, he gestured to the whisky decanter. "A drink, old friend?"

"Good heavens, at this time of morning? Don't be gauche! Tea or coffee. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, perhaps: it's all the rage right now—just brimming with vitamins, according to the London Journal of the Royal Society of Sparks. Better than one of old Sun's potions. But hard drink? Only if you've been awake long enough to ensure that it's not precisely morning, according to your frame of reference…and I assure you, I slept well last night." He smiled gently at Hans and the footman, who'd just finished shifting the chair, and gave them an appreciative nod. "My thanks, gentlemen. I'd never have managed it on my own…I'm not the lad I once was, I'm afraid. Remind me to tip you before I leave. Good service warrants—"

"No tips," Gil cut him off, glowering at Hans and the footmen. "I pay them quite respectably already, Sturmvoraus, and tips are too much like bribes. I don't want my people getting in the habit of accepting bribes."

Tarvek shrugged at the men apologetically, eyes twinkling. "You heard Herr Wulfenbach. No tips…except, perhaps…I've seen Herr Malmberg's mechana-colt run. A breakthrough, in my opinion. I myself intend to put a tenner on it both ways in the Budapest Steeplechase. So there's a tip Herr Wulfenbach can't forbid or force me to take back."

Hans and the footman were too well trained to chuckle out loud, but Gil had no doubt they were doing so silently. There was something in the set of their shoulders and the swing of their polished shoes as they retreated from the room that assured him they were most amused that their boss had been parried so effectively by clever Blitzen Sturmvoraus. He snorted, calling after them, "Bring a coffee tray up. With pastries: I can see my guest has a great fondness for pastries. And cakes…send up some babkas, while you're at it." He shot Tarvek's stomach a pointed glance, murmuring, "Oh, yes…very fond of pastries. Old friend."

Tarvek, settling himself in comfy ease in the big wing-backed chair, smiled beatifically at Gil. "Perfect! Quite the little kaffeeklatsch this is going to be. Charming. Simply charming." He crossed his legs and smoothed the drape of his gray wool trousers. "Now, what shall we talk about while we wait for the kitchen to send something up? I can tell you all about the current season at the Follies. Or the new singer at the Island of the Monkey Women? Can you believe that place is still a going concern? Under the same management, too! Of course they play on their history and the ties to our regime quite dreadfully, but they also work hard to keep the music merry and the drinks strong…which explains their success even without taking the adventures of our salad days into account."

"You're blathering."

"I _always_ blather," Tarvek agreed, allowing Gil a flickering glimpse of the hard granite foundations of his personality hidden under the warm aura of his affable sociability. "I always have. It's my hallmark, and it's a bit late in the day to change my style. Especially as it works so very well." The words blended lazy ease with acrid anger – then lightened. "No one would know me if I didn't piffle on. If you don't want to talk about the music and theater in Paris, what about the Spark world? There's a fellow named Dali who's producing the most extraordinary devices! He calls them 'surreal,' and insists they're based on what lies beyond reality…if you can imagine it."

"My people have brought in several of his works," Gil said, sitting in his great desk chair. He steepled his fingers and studied Tarvek. "They're…interesting. Father says they're quite ridiculous, but I sent one to Agatha, and she wrote to say that she's intrigued."

"And you're not? Thunder Wulfenbach fails to be fascinated by something that novel? _Alors!_ Will wonders never cease!" Tarvek was watching, eyes narrowed like a hunting cat's.

"My focus is on Empire, these days," Gil replied, face suddenly grim and gaunt. "_Someone_ has to maintain order in Europa." He let the unspoken accusations and suspicions float in the air between them. After all, he thought, it wasn't as though Tarvek was putting much effort into the more obvious mechanics of running his half-Empire. Not that Sturmvoraus seemed to have any time for his own spark, these days, either, in amongst all his foolish pastimes, suspicious rendezvous, and highly questionable paramours and hangers-on. Angry, he changed the subject, asking, "And Zola? How is your darling wife, these days? And your children? Or do you care enough to keep touch at all between mistresses?"

Ah, he thought. At hit. Dark eyes had flashed at that, hurt and angry for a mere fraction of a second, before they went blank and an empty, delicate smile replaced all other expression. Tarvek shrugged.

"_Ex_-wife. She is as ever…as you no doubt already know. She wrote from Castile a few months ago, asking for money. She's said to be having an affair with an Italian Doge. Which Doge, I can't say. Not that it matters. No doubt she'll get around to all of them, given time. Fortunately, since the divorce I no longer have to even pretend to care. Annekin is in Cathay, studying with Sun Daiyu Yi-sheng. She's a daughter to be proud of. Unfortunately, she does not return the sentiment. Andrei's at Cambridge, ostensibly reading in Material Engineering, but almost certainly doing an internship with the Round Table. Not that he or Zola would tell me about that: she makes every effort to keep him in Mongfish circles but far from any _modern _Sturmvoraus influence. But you know that, too. I sent word you should watch out for him. I suspect he'll be dangerous, one of these days."

"Dangerous, yes, but we've attempted to put some checks on his ambitions, Albia and I. I think he's aware his reach had best not exceed his grasp. He can settle for being your heir; he'll have Western Europa eventually," Gil said, conceding Tarvek the point. One could hardly accuse him of betraying the Empire to promote his own bloodline. Quite a lot of what security knew of Zola and her too-promising son was known by way of Tarvek's information.

Apparently Tarvek was in no mood to forgive Gil for the dagger-thrust of family chat, though. He leaned back in the chair and said, so gently it was like a perfect razorblade cutting open a vein, "And Zulenna? How is she? I'd ask about your children, too, but it always presents the dreadful social dilemma of whether to restrict the question to your legitimate family, or to include Agatha's twins, as well."

Even now, after years of intense self-discipline, Gil's temper was vile and violent—and no one could break through his controls like Sturmvoraus. Not even Agatha. Before he knew what he was about he was out of his seat and hurtling forward, leaning over the desk and past, growling, hand going to the Jaeger dagger – only to find Tarvek's walking stick tip suddenly rammed dead center against his sternum, and Tarvek's fingers gently fondling the silver floral repoussé of the cap, as though… just possibly…there might be a hidden button or lever that might…just possibly…launch a poisoned dart from the shaft, or spray acid, or any number of other deadly things that suddenly seemed all too likely. After all, Tarvek remained one of the three great rulers of Europa, and yet he regularly walked alone in Paris at night, unguarded…or guarded only by Smoke Knight skill, his own as well as that of any hidden bodyguards.

He met Tarvek's eyes, refusing to look at the lacquered shaft between them. Those eyes seemed as cold, dark, and unsettling as an arctic plain in the unbroken night of midwinter, with nothing filling them but wind and solitude. Gil drew a tentative breath and said, softly, "You shouldn't goad me." It was as much plea as warning.

One dark brow flicked up, then back. A tiny tilt of his head seemed to reply, silently, "And you shouldn't goad me, either, _idiot_." Gil nodded, conceding, and gingerly edged back, setting the dagger aside and sitting heavily in the massive chair. Tarvek allowed the movement to disengage the contact with the walking stick. He drew it down, letting it lie easily across his thighs. Then, his voice suddenly gentle, he asked, "How are they, really? All of them."

Gil flinched at the compassion, finding it almost as hard to bear as the goading. "Zulenna is…content. She has her standing as my wife and she takes it seriously. She is a…good wife. I think she has even forgiven me. I'm not sure she will ever forgive Agatha. Even being a Heterodyne isn't enough to overcome…well... But she's a good Empress, and a good mother. Klaus Zantabraxus shows an admirable distaste for government, but he's studying hard anyway. I was hoping I could find some way for him to spend a few years free, adventuring the way I did, but he's not so anonymous as I was. And he'll be thirty, soon. If I can't set him free I was hoping to at least find him a mentor in government, let him have someone who's not me to test himself against."

Tarvek nodded. "Yes?" He seemed to wait for something, but Gil didn't know what. When whatever it was failed to come, he sighed, and said, "And Zsazsa?"

Gil chuckled. "Off with Klaus and Grandma-Empress-Zanta, in Skifander, apparently terrorizing something-or-other beasts on even days and blowing up laboratories on odd days. And Martya is badgering me to be allowed to join her. I told her when she turned twenty I'd send her along, but that her mother was going to insist on her spending at least two years as a proper – and virginal – Europan debutante before I let her run off to turn herself into a lusty Skifandrian madgirl warrior."

"And…the twins?"

Gil was spared responding when the tap came at the door. "Coffee and babkas," he said, unnecessarily, before calling the servants in. He remained silent as they set up a coffee table, the coffee set, and several plates of assorted foods, then quickly said, almost before the door shut behind them, "Sturmvoraus, we need to talk. About Paris. I hate to ask – I shouldn't _have _to ask – but what in red-fire-and-lightning are you up to out there? My people say you're spinning more webs than a nyar-spider, with every subtle sneak in the city. And when that supply runs out you're importing more."

"Goodness, you suspect me? Of chicanery? What a shock!" Tarvek drawled, as he leaned forward and began to fill a plate with rum-soaked chocolate balls and cream-filled babkas. "I take it a luxogram wouldn't have been sufficient to ask me?"

"No. It wouldn't." Gil rose and came around the desk to pour himself a cup of black coffee – no cream, no sugar –then leaned with his buttocks propped against his desk-edge. "You're not…backsliding, are you?"

Tarvek gave him a smoldering look of resentment. "Backsliding? _Backsliding?! _Excuse me? The last I heard I was co-Emperor of this continent. Haven't I kept the peace in the West for the past three decades? What am I supposed to be backsliding _to,_ Gilgamesh _Holzfaller_ Wulfenbach? It's not like I'm the only one in this room who ever accomplished his goals through covert methods, after all." His pique, however, failed to withstand the onslaught of sweet babka and hot coffee – with plenty of sugar and cream. One deep sip and he sighed, happily. "I see you've got Von Mekkan's blend, still, and are using one of Agatha's coffee machines. It's been…oh, my…_years_ since I tasted that. I'd forgotten just how good it is."

Gil studied him and frowned. "You don't have a supply? I'm sure Van would be happy to ship you some. He's proud of that blend!"

"I have the blend," Tarvek said, shortly, then, quickly added, "I really don't know why you're worried about me, you know. If you'd been keeping up with my reports you and your people would know how many fire-fang beetles live in the beams of the Storm King's Palace at Versailles, much less any political skullduggery. It's not like I don't spend enough time passing on the details."

"Perhaps it's that you don't exactly seem to have your mind on business," Gil replied. "You're a slithery social sneak. You drink. You flirt. You go to operas. You gossip. You start new fashions. You revive old fashions. You design dresses for your favorites. You throw parties. You hold scavenger hunts. You eat too much, you drink too much, you fu… er, carouse too much. You write bad plays. You hold beauty pageants. You judge dog shows. You spend hours with disreputable lowlifes. Need I go on?"

"Of course not! That's a splendid summation," Tarvek said, with an amused sniff. "I work exceedingly hard at all that!"

Gil pinched the bridge of his nose, his cup and saucer balanced in the other broad hand. "What you don't appear to do, idiot, is _govern_. You send your deputies to all the major governmental meetings, you let the Parliament of the West deal with major legislation, your _Bureau d'Affaires Domestique_ handles the day-to-day labor of your government. Good lord, man, you've even got that odd little Belgian with the marrow fetish running your intelligence and police forces."

"Only the analytical branches!" Tarvek protested, with a squawk. "I told you years ago, I _learned _from your father: the right monsters for the right job. I_ delegate_. Unlike _some _Imperial Idiots I could name," he added, with a fulminating glance over a well-filled cream horn. "That secretary of yours – he's a nice enough fellow, but I can tell just meeting him that he's no Boris. Where are _your _deputies, Wulfenbach?"

"I take my _personal_ responsibility seriously," Gil snapped. "And I don't try to write off my indulgences as 'work.' Red fire, what good is it to attend the opera? Or spend the night playing cards and singing drinking songs in a…a…bordello! You've really become a very loose fish, Sturmvoraus. Quite a change from the prissy little aristo sugar-plum you used to be."

"It's called covert espionage," Tarvek grumbled, struggling to keep his pastry from shedding crumbs over his round, brocade-covered stomach. "That and 'social engineering.' You do realize I keep most of the likely plotters too busy worrying about the cut of their trousers and the standing of their team in the latest scavenger hunt to have time for much serious conniving and conspiracy? Even the sparks are too busy planning boats for my river parties to get into much trouble. As for the bordellos," he flicked a sly glance at Gil, and said sweetly, "I learned from the master….Herr Holzfaller. You and Bang were so convincing as depraved scum, all those years ago! Very clever. I enjoyed reading your old reports, you know. I suspect there's a lot you two left out, though."

"There's a difference between Herr Holzfaller being a sot and a cad, and Prince Sturmvoraus, Co-Emperor of Europa being one," Gil scolded.

"Of course there is: it's much harder to pull off as a Prince and an Emperor," Tarvek protested. "I have to be very, very silly and decadent before I can learn _anything_! You have no _idea_ how much bad champagne I've had to drink! And how many stupid parties I've had to attend. Or poodles I've judged. Or ribbons I've cut. The risk of judging the Spark Regatta alone ought to earn me a medal for valor! And I assure you, if you've seen one underfed Parisian chorus dancer do the Can-Can, you've seen…enough." His voice was suddenly weary. "More than enough." He poured himself another cup of coffee, doctored it with sugar and cream…then, instead of drinking it, he cradled the cup in both hands, head drooping over it as though he were saying a prayer, or like Dr. Sun meditating over a cup of hot cha.

Gil waited for him to say something more. He didn't.

"Tarvek?"

Tarvek looked up, then, openly vulnerable for the first time since he'd entered the room. "I'm _tired_, Gil," he said. "I'm just…tired."

Gil paused, studying him: the aging Parisian roué. A tall, almost gangly frame hidden in a layer of fat—but still with the reflexes of a Smoke Knight. The first soft wrinkles forming around his eyes. Gingery-grey streaks of fading hair at either temple. Tarvek's hands were growing heavy-knuckled, and it showed in a way it didn't seem to on Gil's squarer hands.

"You need a rest," Gil said, softly, for some reason suddenly finding an eight-year-old boy hiding hunched and miserable in the body of this man just leaving his prime.

"Blue lightning, no! Of course not!" Tarvek scoffed, and looked away, sipping his coffee. "After all, it's not like I do anything difficult. You said it yourself: it's not like I _govern_." The sarcasm was a double-bladed ax, cutting both men. The silence following the remark seemed unbreakable.

"The twins are fine," Gil said, abruptly. "They're tall, and as beautiful as Agatha. I don't see them much. Agatha sent them up to stay with Theo and Sliepnir for a few months last year, to get a feel for the court. Zulenna was…polite. They know I'm their father, of course. It wasn't exactly a well-kept secret. But I haven't spoken to them outside court appearances more than five times since they were born. I send them presents at Yule and on their birthday…like any good honorary uncle would. I daresay you do the same."

"Books," Tarvek said. "Oh, and dresses. Paris fashion. I sent them hats last year, with feathers: the nicest little cloche hats." He mulled over the memory, a faint smile breaking through for an instant. "Cloche hats with pheasant feathers."

"No toast holders?"

He shrugged. "I was keeping toast holders in reserve. No doubt they'll marry someday, and it would be terrible to have run out of appropriate wedding gifts, after all. I haven't met them, of course. They don't come with Agatha to our annual meeting."

Gil frowned. "No. You _don't _see Agatha between the meetings, do you?"

"Neither do you."

"I have a wife who would be offended…with good reason, unfortunately."

"Zulenna's royalty," Tarvek said, with sharp annoyance. "She knows the rules. It's not like you'd be the first ruler to marry for the sake of the Empire, then live a more questionable private life for the sake of his sanity and his soul."

"_You_ didn't. At least…you didn't lead a questionable private life until after the divorce. Barring your eternal parties and court buffoonery. Zola betrayed you long before then. She's the one who chose to end it."

"She's the one who'd have brain-cored me or put me in a mind-control tube if I'd behaved the same way she did."

Gil snorted. "Touché. Fair enough. Zulenna only threatened to, er…make some major deletions in my physique with her sword. And she may be a good swordswoman, but she's not as good as me."

"Why…"

Gil waited, but Tarvek didn't finish the question. "Why what?"

"Why didn't you and Agatha marry? She'd made her choice, after all. And it's not like your father would have objected by the end. I waited to hear you'd set a date. Waited years after I married Zola. Then…Zulenna? You didn't have to marry Zulenna."

"There are different kinds of necessity," Gil said. "You should know that. The match stabilized half of Europa and won over the Fifty Families, especially in combination with your marriage to Zola. And…Agatha hadn't—_picked me_, I mean. She didn't choose. I…even after what happened later, I've got to say, I'm not sure she would have. But when I married Zulenna, she and I weren't, well, we weren't much of anything by then. It just didn't seem to work. It kept not-working until it was too late and I was married to Zulenna." He gave a twisted grin. "Maybe once you were gone, the spark went out of it. Maybe what we both really needed was that spark of competition. You or Zulenna. Something to add spice after the first thrill had passed. But she never did choose me. Or you. Or anyone, so far as I know."

Tarvek's frown pulled down the creases between his brows. "But…I saw the two of you. In the tower."

Gil had no idea what he was talking about. Or…perhaps he did. Agatha and he had explored some of their options more than once in several of the towers of Castle Heterodyne in the months after the war. He'd simply assumed she'd been doing similarly with Tarvek at other times, and perhaps in other towers. "She didn't pick me, she picked getting some experience. I thought you and she were doing the same."

Tarvek looked down his nose at Gil. "_I _was a _gentleman_."

"Oh." Gil sipped his coffee, considering. "That was stupid of you."

"It made it easier to marry Zola later, though. And _someone_ had to marry Zola. It didn't seem fair to make you give up what you and Agatha had…so…" Tarvek stared back down into his own cup. "After all, father had planned for me to marry her all along. And it was a good political match. Sturmvoraus. Mongfish. One of those matches made in the society pages."

The pieces began to fit together. It was all Gil could do not to swear. Stupid, stupid aristo idiot with his puffed up notions of honor and his mistaken assumption that Agatha'd made some kind of final choice between her two suitors! And his damnable aristo commitment to Empire! The ass had sacrificed himself on the blood-altar of Zola Mongfish, for his friends' sake and for Europa's. After all, it wasn't like he could have joined the Foreign Legion. He was too well known and too necessary to the Empire by then.

Moron. Complete and utter moron.

A younger Gil would have said so, with passion and verve. However, Tarvek wasn't the only man in the room who'd aged.

"Well," Gil said, pushing himself away from the desk and putting his cup and saucer down on the tray. "Water under the bridge, I daresay. Now, about Paris." He eagle-eyed his co-Emperor.

"Yes. Paris. What has you and your people wound up, Wulfenbach? It can't all be my suave demeanor and elegant air of uselessness."

"My people say there's a new faction in town, tied to that girl you've been dragging about with you to all the more bohemian artist parties. They've traced her back through an entire network of known radicals, to a group in Istanbul. They lose track of her in a muddle of old family ties and friends-of-friends and court gossip and trade secrets, but they're concerned. Now that I'm reasonably sure you're not encouraging her for some hidden agenda of your own, I'd rather you know what they've learned. Maybe you can help them…" Not that he was completely sure Tarvek had no such agenda, or ever would be completely sure. But the problem no longer seemed as pressing as it had before they'd spoken.

Tarvek, too, put down his cup and rose, dusting himself off to remove any stray crumbs that might have gotten past his defenses. "Excuse me, but I'm ahead of you already. Have your people look through the papers I dropped off on the way here this morning: I've got a full brief regarding Fatima and her associates for you and your people to study. She's a cousin of the Grande Turque, by way of his sparky mother. Part of the same spark network Z's people came from, though there's no direct relationship between them beyond trade ties and religion and spark. Z's been sending me what information he can unearth, but so far it's not…useful. In the meantime I'm letting her think she's seducing me."

"She's not?"

"I'd sooner bed a nyar-spider. Or even Zola. Either one would make better conversation afterward."

"That wouldn't bother most men out looking for a mistress."

Tarvek looked at Gil and sighed. "It would bother you, wouldn't it?"

"Well, yes, but…" Gil flushed, and ducked his head. "That hasn't always kept me out of trouble."

"I didn't say it kept you out of trouble. Just out of bed with morons."

"Mmmmph. Yes. Well." One could hardly call Agatha a moron, after all…

Tarvek collected his hat and gloves, putting himself back together neatly. He tucked his walking stick under his elbow, and he and Gil strolled slowly toward the door.

"How long are you staying here in Budapest?" Gil asked.

"Not long. Two days, maybe three, to give your people time to go over my brief and ask questions. Then I'm heading back on the Sunset Express. The trains aren't that fast, and if I'm gone too long someone will get tired of designing boats or planning costumes for the Ardennes' masquerade ball, and the next thing I know some trumped up fool will start fomenting rebellion. Or design the ultimate war clank using a well-aged Brie, three geese and a tractor. Or begin a new fad for chartreuse." He gave a delicate shudder. "It took me ten entire years to put down the mauve insurgency. I have no intention of seeing the continent break out with radical chartreusist sympathies."

"Stay longer and I'll have one of my people fly you back," Gil said.

"Fly? In another of your wretched buzzy-bugs?" He made a face. "I did that back in the bad old days, when we had no choice. Never again."

"Please?" Gil smiled at him, suddenly sure of what he wanted. "It's been too long. I've missed you. We've run this continent together for thirty years, and I only just realized how little we've talked about anything _but _politics and finance and strategy and armies and madboys and mayhem in all that time. And most of the time not even that: you're in Paris, I'm here or on the Grand Tour. Please. Stay." Please, he added silently, I'm lonely – and so are you.

And so is Agatha.

Agatha, whose children you've never met. Who you barely mention, even though you rule half a continent while she rules the other half—partners together. Who you won't ask for a coffee machine, even though you'll risk asking Vanamonde for his coffee blend. Who you meet once a year for our formal governmental confab, and never risk getting close to.

She never got to _choose_, you idiot.

Neither did you. You just jumped to a wrong conclusion and ran away to commit Zola-cide and put your heart to death in the arms of a human nyar-spider.

Tarvek shook his head. "Gil, I'm sorry. But, really, I hate your falling machines. And no matter what you think of my methods, I keep Western Europe stable. The last thing we need is trouble. Europa's had enough wars, and if there's one thing I manage with my piffle and my parties and my fashions and my scavenger hunts, it's an ongoing epidemic of peace. As long as I'm doing my job, you don't have to do yours, because we never 'make you come over' to settle our squabbles. Agatha keeps Eastern Europa stable by having the biggest and most terrifying armed force in history. I do it by…babbling. Endlessly, endlessly babbling." He tried to make the words light, but to Gil's ears his voice sounded exhausted.

"Let me send Klaus Zantabraxus out to Paris as your proxy. He can spend a few weeks finding out how much he doesn't know. And your deputies could smack him around and teach him some humility. Then, when you're rested, you can go out there and show the young hound how a real fox does it."

Tarvek lit up for a moment, a smile blooming. Then he frowned. "No. It's a tempting idea. But…I haven't been out of Paris for longer than two weeks since we three took power. I'll tell you what. Send your boy out to me and when I've got him trained up a bit, then…maybe. Maybe I'll take a rest. Maybe…maybe we can even find a way to swap sons for awhile. I'd like Andrei to learn from someone beside his mother and the Knights. You could knock some sense into him, Wulfenbach style."

Gil sighed. Maybe that would do, but he found he doubted that he'd ever get Tarvek away from Paris again, if he failed to keep him away now. Still, it was hardly as though he could kidnap the man…

"All right. At least you'll be here for a few more days. Come over for dinner tonight. You can meet Martya and catch up with Zulenna. She'll be delighted to see you."

"She's changed so much, then?" Tarvek quipped. "Amazing. As I recall she always loathed me for outranking her—and I still do."

"You don't have to remind her of it!"

"You think I can avoid it? I think she already knows, Wulfenbach."

"Well, yes. But…she can pretend she doesn't if you don't insist on it. Please. Dinner? My cook's as good with dinner as he is with babka and pastries."

Tarvek grinned a very crooked grin. "Well, in that case!" Then he sighed. "No. I have to go through the reports my people are sending me by lux-o-gram. And I'm supposed to meet with a silk merchant about a new weaving technique they're experimenting with. And there's a spark who's just gotten her doctorate from Trans Poly who wants to meet me. I think she's hoping for a place at L'Universite, and wants me to recommend her to the Master of Paris."

Gil's heart dropped, but he nodded. "Maybe before you leave, though. If I have to I'll make it an Imperial Command."

"You only outrank me in issues of transcontinental scope. I don't think where I eat dinner counts, Herr Wulfenbach."

"You're the Emperor of the West having dinner in a city in the East with the over-Emperor of the Extended Empire. That _makes_ it transcontinental."

"Yeah, yeah, right. Try again, Woodchopper-boy." But Tarvek smiled and, suddenly, he hauled Gil in for an unexpected hug. "Cinder and ash, but I missed you. It's good to see you, Gil." He thumped Gil gently between the shoulder blades. He was soft but strong, lanky but round, and his hug felt like comfort and kindness.

Gil wondered if Agatha would feel as comforted. Her life, full and fulfilling as it was, had not been any easier than his or Tarvek's.

They pulled apart, then, and shook hands like proper ruling dignitaries parting company. Then Tarvek left.

Gil called Hans in to get a footman and clear away the coffee things, then walked to the window, brooding, still uneasily certain that this might be his only chance to…what? Rebuild his friendship, rather than just a governmental partnership? He found that desirable, but to his own surprise what he really wanted was to get Tarvek together with Agatha, and that wasn't possible. Tarvek wouldn't fly. Agatha wouldn't come to Budapest – not while Zulenna was there to be offended.

Below, Tarvek had come out the main door of the palace and was toddling like a great, lanky egg-man down the gravel walk…away. Not that Gil could change that. It wasn't like he could kidnap him.

It…

By heaven, he thought, our stories began with a kidnap. Why shouldn't they continue with a kidnap? Or two…

He stopped thinking for one blinding white moment, then shouted with laughter, so frightening the footman that he dropped the coffee tray.

"Oh, never mind, man," Gil said, silencing the man's terrified twittering. "Just clean it up. I won't bite. Much." He grabbed the crank and spun the intricate gears that opened the windows, leaning out and shouting, "Hoy! Sturmvoraus!"

Tarvek turned and waved.

Gil leaned farther. "Just so you know – I'm going to kidnap you. Don't be too worried when my people come for you."

"The last person who did that and got away with it was a Trygvassen. Actually, it took two of them to pull it off. Who are you going to get who can match the Trygvassens?" Tarvek looked amused, and entirely disbelieving.

"Oh, I've got a few ideas. Just remember—when they come for you, don't panic. I'd just as soon no one got hurt." He waved once more, then pulled his head back in, ideas percolating. "Hans, let the footman worry about the mess. I need you to get some things set up for me. First, call Boris Dolokhov and tell him I'm pulling him out of retirement for a few months to work with Klaus Zantabraxus, in Paris. And send someone up to K-Z's room to tell him I need to have a long talk with him. Then I want you to call Van Mekkhan, over in Mechanicsberg, and arrange a time when I can have a long talk with him, too. That's sometime _today_. And contact Grantz. I've got work for him."

"Her. I think Grantz is a her this month."

"Him, her, I can never keep the schedule straight. Whichever she is this week, get in touch and let her know I've got an assignment – and to recruit help. Maybe…maybe Trygvassen and his sister. It would…amuse someone."

Or perhaps piss him off. But that would be good for Tarvek Sturmvoraus, too. The overgrown ginger weasel had clearly spent a few too many years in quiet desperation. Noble, self-sacrificing, Imperialdesperation with parties and opera and escargot, but still… definitely desperation.

He sat down at his desk, pulled out pads of note paper and sheets of drawing paper, and joyfully entered the Madness Place, stopping only for short periods to give orders and brief critical players in his game. His plan gamboled through his mind like kittens in a yarn store. Soon it involved secret crypts, heart-shaped cakes, brilliantly novel pit traps and oubliettes, oversized clanks, a small fleet of flying machines, three very particular Jaeger monsters, a roller-skating giraffe, a leaning tower of piroshky, a case of plum brandy, a basket of midi-mimmoth kits, wasp weasels, an entirely novel design for a rotating bed, and an automated accordion player. He was still giggling to himself and adding the final details late that afternoon when Zulenna came in.

"Gil? What are you doing? According to Hans you have the whole palace in an uproar."

He looked at his wife. She was, as always, proud and beautiful and very, very dignified. He considered telling her. Once, as a schoolmate, she'd been…well, never exactly relaxed or casual, but capable of fun, and wit, and laughter. When they'd first married she'd been at least a friend.

No, he thought. It's too late for that.

"Nothing much," he said. "A project, that's all."

She nodded, calmly. "Ah. Well, just don't forget to change for dinner." She turned to go.

"Wait." She turned back, and Gil, surprised by his own impulse, found himself blushing. "Um. I…I'll tell you, if you like. If…"

"If what?"

"If you promise not to get mad?"

"I never get mad."

"You get even. So…promise you won't get even?"

She considered his request, and to his and her mutual surprise, nodded. She came across the thick carpet and behind the desk, leaning over to look at his lists and drawings. As she read, Gil told her a story about mistaken assumptions and pride and needless self-sacrifice and loneliness and the burden of governance and the slow creep of time, and of wrong turns and lost dreams. Then he told her about kidnaps and adventure and hope and Trygvassens…and about midi-mimmoth kits and a roller-skating giraffe. To his amazement, his beautiful, proud, lonely wife smiled. Then she laughed. Then she gave the address of a particularly good lingerie shop. And insisted he replace the accordion with a wind-chime and a mechanical nightingale. And she argued passionately that the midi-mimmoths had to have bows around their necks, and that the plum brandy ought to be from the Sturmhalten orchards. And then she kissed him.

"Why?" he asked, when they'd come up for air.

"You know why," she said, "You just don't realize it, yet. Can I have a midi-mimmoth kitten, too?"

"You can have a whole herd, if you like," he said.

And that wasn't the end, but it will do for the time being. They all lived—probably not happily ever after, but happily enough, and for a long, long time.


End file.
